


Fragile Caliber

by cadkitten



Category: Dir en grey, LUNA SEA, Sugizo (Musician)
Genre: Belonging, Depression, Hand Jobs, M/M, Musical Instruments, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension, Suicidal Thoughts, Teaching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 05:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6643792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The people on the outside, few of them see the truth when they look at me. Perhaps because it's <i>at</i> and not within. Perhaps it is because they don't want to or in some cases maybe it is because they need to see something else inside of me than what truly exists here. Either way, I let them. There's this mask that I put on, one that maybe others would deem to be something selfish and fragile, but I think rivals the things I read about when I thumb through the stories about heroes, about people who make the world a better place, one person - one action - at a time. Just because my mask hides away emotional pain doesn't mean it's worth anything lesser than something of that ilk. The caliber of my bullet is different, but the impact is the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragile Caliber

**Author's Note:**

> For myself. Not for anybody else, not for any other reason. Just because it has to be.  
> Beta Readers: sakura_ame  
> Song[s]: various by Lindsey Stirling

It's been years since it hasn't hurt, since I haven't felt like each breath has the world crashing in on me. It's not the way you'd think or even all that obvious to anyone outside of my little circle of trusted friends and family that know how I _really_ feel. How I feel in the dead of the night with the coldness of a bed long-since empty beside me. Or how I feel when I look into _her_ room and remember her tiny hands reaching for me as she screamed my name - _daddy_ \- as she was plucked up from my life and forever removed from it. I know somewhere out there someone else probably knows how I feel; understands this exact pain - and that hurts even more. Knowing that I'm not alone in this hellish wasteland of memories ten years past. Memories that should no longer be eating me alive....

The people on the outside, few of them see the truth when they look at me. Perhaps because it's _at_ and not within. Perhaps it is because they don't want to or in some cases maybe it is because they need to see something else inside of me than what truly exists here. Either way, I let them. There's this mask that I put on, one that maybe others would deem to be something selfish and fragile, but I think rivals the things I read about when I thumb through the stories about heroes, about people who make the world a better place, one person - one action - at a time. Just because my mask hides away emotional pain doesn't mean it's worth anything lesser than something of that ilk. The caliber of my bullet is different, but the impact is the same. The countless number of times I've been told my smile brightens their day or that my music has saved their life... it's worth every instant of pretending to be someone else when I'm in front of the camera. Pretending I'm not the man who cannot fall asleep each night because his dreams are plagued by the screams of his past. Pretending I'm not itching to rip myself apart at the first opportunity. Pretending that I'm stronger than I am.

I was once told strength was different to different people. Such a simple way of saying that everyone has different battles they have to fight to come up aces at the end of each day. Maybe in that way, I am stronger than I think; stronger than I give myself credit for. 

Tonight, I'm on the same familiar roller coaster; the one that's become my ride night after night for near a decade now. Once in a while, I try to leave it, find myself weaker on the other side, and trail right back over here. The glass feels familiar against my lip, the smooth surface against my tongue like the feeling of coming home, and the liquid feels like the bitterness of hope as it slides down my throat. 

I make it sound almost like a good thing. But it's not. Cheap beer in a cheaper bar in the _worst_ part of town. I know what I'm looking for and I know I'll find it here just as easily as I have every single other time I've tried. I'm looking for someone to grace me with their presence, someone to dull the ache even if it's only for a second. I've been accused of being a whore, of being too much of an easy lay. But the truth is, I don't care what anyone else thinks of this part of me because some nights it's all I have left. Some nights it's what keeps that hero mask in place and backs me up from the hell my life could become. And some nights it's what keeps me from the darker things, the ones I can't even admit to myself, not even in the instant I'm thinking them. The pieces that _no one_ knows but me.

My fingers push across the countertop, through the ring of condensation from the bottle I've passed off to the bartender, the request for another dying on my lips as someone presses up against me from behind, their arm curling around my waist. Maybe some would consider this an intense invasion of their space, call it anything from coming on too strong to implying something far more sinister in the action. But this is what I'm here for, it's what I'm projecting as hard as I possibly can. I'm the bait and this person behind me... they only snapped it up right out of the water; that's all.

Breath hot against my ear and I press back toward them, feeling all masculine angles and something kicks up inside of me even faster than it would have with a woman in their place. It's been too long for this, too long since I let go of every ounce of my control, since I let myself become the object of desire for a night rather than turning on all of my own charm and making someone else feel like the star. Too long since it's been about me and my needs and just how much I've wanted to just _exist_ in someone else's cocoon. My breath hitches and there's a breathy chuckle and then, "Tsk, not even going to see who it is, hmm?" And, _Gods_ , the sound of that voice - so familiar and powerful. Heat tingles its way down toward my cock and my nipples harden in the fraction of an instant it takes to identify just _who_ has their arm around me like this. _Sugizo._

"Someone's looking for a hell of a night." His fingertips produce slight pressure against my stomach and then, "Enjoy then. If it doesn't pan out... let me know." 

I react without thinking, my hand coming to grasp his wrist, holding on as I turn with the bit of space he's put between us, the stool easily allowing my action. I let go of him from the awkward angle I'm holding onto him with and take my chances, take the risk that only three beers and ten years of loneliness afford me. "Let's ditch this place." I'm off the stool before he can protest, knowing he'll at least follow me outside, at least give me the time of day - well, night, really - to talk if nothing else. Even if it's not what my body had in mind or what my hands crave.

We're outside quicker than I expected and he has his hand on my lower back, guiding, before I can think to so much as protest that we're going the wrong way. We get to his car and he opens the passenger door, holding out his hand toward it to let me in and hell if I don't let him treat me like this for now. It feels good... even if I feel like I should be the one doing this to him: treating _him_ like the star. But that's just how he's always been; so humble and loves to provide what he can to others.

Behind my sunglasses, I close my eyes and let the silence pull us toward wherever he thinks we're going. It's only a few minutes later that I realize, I should have asked, "Are you actually okay to be driving?"

His laugh is gentle and the hand on my thigh burns like molten lava. Blood rushes south again and all I can do is pray he's okay with how I'm reacting because if he so much as glances at me, it'll be far too obvious. "I'd just arrived when I saw you." He's quiet for a moment and then the admission comes and it shocks me. "Actually, I was there to find you."

I turn my head, eyelids half open, confusion lancing through me. "You... why?"

"Because you haven't answered anyone's texts or calls or even our emails for three weeks. Because I know where you tend to hang out when shit gets bad and I figured you didn't want anyone else to know it was _this_ bad again." His hand squeezes and then disappears as he has to shift gears again. 

My thoughts reel and I find myself staring through him rather than at him for the time being. Finally, I blink and focus back on him, giving a subtle lift of my shoulder. "It's always this bad, sometimes I just suck at hiding it."

He's silent for almost long enough I think he's not going to reply to me about it. But then the car slows down and the engine cuts and my brain realizes where we are - at his town home, safe and sound in his driveway. I start to take off my seatbelt, but his hand covers my own and in an instant, he's turned fully toward me, fingertips tracing my jawline, encouraging me to look toward him. "I don't think you've ever really understood what I meant when I told you I'm here for you."

And then his hand's gone and he's getting out of the car. I can't think of anything other than how I _want_ this to go and I force myself to stay still for a minute before I move forward with getting out of the car, just to calm myself down enough to function like a reasonable person. He cannot mean what I think he does, no matter how we're playing off of one another. Which means I need to get my brain in game rather than my dick - and _fuck_ that's more difficult than it seems; especially three beers in with the full intent to fuck on my mind.

My door opens and he's looking down at me expectantly. I click my seatbelt off and slide out of the car, waiting until his back is turned to yank at my pants just enough to make it slightly less obvious what direction my mind keeps rushing off toward. 

By the time we're in his living room and I have a glass of water in my hand, I've gotten a little more self-control involved in the situation. Just enough to not make an ass out of myself; though I'm pretty sure leaning back into him the way I did at the bar already accomplished that title for me for the day. Our silence is moving past comfortable and rapidly toward awkward - though that's probably on me. I have a tendency to think of things that way at times, even when it's definitely not true.

My eyes flit over the contents of his living room, finding his violin and I let out a careful little huff of a laugh. "You know, sometimes I think I'd like to learn to play," I gesture at the gorgeous piece, "but I don't think my fingers would like the transition from picking to bowing very much."

He's across the room in an instant, lifting the violin from its case and walking toward me with it. "You'll never know unless you try." And there's something in his voice... something I can't quite place that I want to understand, that I want to grasp onto with all that I am and cling to in desperation. He takes my glass from me and pushes the violin into my hand instead. I lift it, placing it against my shoulder and do this strange little shuffle trying to get the chin rest right. 

When he presses up behind me again, I can't find the self-control to stop myself from leaning back against him, pressing into his touch. My eyelids slide shut and I wet my lips, waiting as he adjusts everything and then carefully slides the bow into my right hand. His fingers come to slide up under my own on the strings, letting mine rest on top of his and his hand covers mine on the bow. I'm pressed so tight against him, I swear I can feel his breath as if it is my own. "Just let me move for us..." And then he's sliding the bow across the strings, his fingers delicately transporting both of ours across the strings in an easy melody.

The more he realizes I'm fully relaxed to his touch, the quicker he becomes, his fingers dancing over the strings, the bow moving easily from one angle to the next until my own arm is begging to be the reason for the melody. He lets it happen, pulling his hand away from the bow and I move it with the shift of our fingers, clumsy at first and then progressively better, hitting the right strings at the right time. My strokes aren't as strong as his own, aren't the exact right movements, but it's _exciting_ nonetheless.

By the time we're done, his fingers stilling and my arm slowly relaxing, the bow sliding off the strings with the most decidedly easy sound, I realize I'm more excited than I thought. It's like the first time I picked up a guitar, my body reacting as though it's sexual. I'm aching and his arm's caught around my waist, holding me tightly back against him. 

When his lips press to my neck, I can't breathe and when his hand slides lower, his touch feather light over the very core of my need, I find myself arching against him. "I-"

His hand squeezes lightly and my breath hitches, cutting my words off before they can ever begin. "This is what I've always meant. What I always will. Whatever you need." His hand slides away from my own on his violin and I can feel his smile against my neck as both hands come down to my jeans, unfastening the three buttons and easing the fabric apart. "Now play for me. Anything." His voice dips and I shudder against him as he whispers out, "And I'll blow your damn mind."

My arm lifts and I place his bow upon the strings, taking in a deep breath and finding the one song I always thought would sound nice on violin. I've already heard the strings, know the notes and I think I can find my way through it. The first pull of bow over string finds relaxation and the second re-grips me with excitement. I move like I was built for this. It's not perfect by any means, not even decidedly _good_ , but it feels like freedom. And his hand feels like _heaven_ as he grips me, finds some melody beneath my own to move within as he touches me.

It doesn't take but a minute or so before I'm trembling in his arms, my fingers still sliding over the strings in the easiest of manners, my body taking over instead of my mind, providing me freedom to not necessarily get all of the notes right, to not really hit the strings at the exact moment necessary or find the right pressure and speed of my strokes. But instead to figure out something inside the sounds that calms me. 

His body presses tighter against my own and I can feel his own excitement, something that draws a ghost of a moan from my lips as I rock lightly against him. His hand moves quicker as his other presses up under my shirt, easing over the dip and swell of muscle and bone of my abdomen. His lips find my ear again and my name is on his breath as his strokes grow more insistent, as he pushes me closer and closer to my edge. 

When it happens - when I fall off of that cliff and nearly sob out my pleasure of it happening - it's like I'm weightless for an instant. Free of all of my pain, free of every thought and burden, free of my hopes and dreams. Only he, I, and the violin exist. And right then, right there, I catch hold of the instant and store it away for all the bad nights, all the messy mornings, and all the times those horrible thoughts creep back in on me. But right now... I've found heaven and that's all I've really ever wanted.


End file.
